


Time Mite Tell

by HunterPeverell



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Books, Crack, Crack Treated Semi-Seriously, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Magical Accidents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:09:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 10,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21793534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HunterPeverell/pseuds/HunterPeverell
Summary: Aziraphale had been enjoying a nice retirement after the Apocalypse-That-Wasn't when something strange begins happening to his bookstore. First there's a fur coat he doesn't own, then a green light he can't miracle away, then a strange device he can't remember ever seeing...And from there, things only get stranger.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 60
Kudos: 46





	1. Ducks, an Invasion, and The Books

**Author's Note:**

> Has it really been over a year since I posted anything here? *Face palms*. What can I say? Whoops! I've been working on my own projects and dealing with my post-college job. Whee!
> 
> Okay, so I read Good Omens years ago and loved it. I blazed through all the fics which interested me and moved on to a different fandom. That changed when the TV show came out. I've been reading lots of fics and every time I came up with a fic idea, I saw that someone had already written it and wrote it better than I could. This story idea, however, kinda yanked me by the schnozz and here we are. This is honestly just a fun thing I wrote. It’s not plot heavy at all, or carries any sort of consistency whatsoever, it’s just a fun bop to write when I’m not working on my plotty book.
> 
> Thanks to mmouse15 for all the support and encouragement!
> 
> I hope you enjoy!
> 
> PLEASE DO NOT POST TO OTHER SITES!

Aziraphale and Crowley enjoyed Time much more now that it wasn't about to End. It was rather freeing, with that apocalyptic deadline over with. Suddenly the skies were (mostly) blue, the future stretched on for (at least a bit) longer, and there were no unpleasant bosses breathing down their necks.

They spent their days in contentment, for the most part. Slow mornings, brunches, lunches, strolls around London or a park, dinner, and afters at Aziraphale's bookshop.

It was all quite domestic, all things told.

Neither would have it any other way. It was all so _freeing,_ being able to see each other without pretext, being able to revel in one another’s companionship openly without fear of retribution. It was all a novelty, and neither wanted it to end.

On this particular day, they entered St. James Park discussing whether or not they ought to take a drive through the countryside (Aziraphale was adamantly against it, mostly due to how unsafe he felt in 

Crowley’s car, but he knew if Crowley really pushed, he'd give in swiftly).

The sun dappled the ground, leaves swayed through the breeze which carried the smells of fried food, petrol, and bird droppings. All was quite normal, and nothing put Aziraphale and Crowley on alert as they bought (inferior) crepes and decided for a drive later that week.

If a duck hadn't dogged their steps, its beady little eyes locked on Aziraphale's crepe, they might have made it back to the bookshop in time. As it was, they fed the ducks and nattered about the validity of Disco music, enjoying themselves immensely in a quiet, familiar sort of way despite the delay to their usual schedule. 

This was why neither of them noticed the Mites arrive in Aziraphale's bookshop.


	2. Odd Things Are Afoot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Mites begin their (literary) invasion.

Mite infestations begin slowly. After all, exploring one's new home is imperative for any species anywhere.

They skittered past tomes flaking with age, over scrolls finely layered in dust, and across books which looked as though they had been bought new and promptly forgotten about. They paused here and there to sample the dormant stories, thoughtfully prodding at the words before scampering on.

It was three days later that Aziraphale noticed that Something Was Amiss. He wandered from the back room to open up and passed his coat stand and saw that, where Uncle Terry’s hat and scarf rested for a long while before Uncle Terry reclaimed them, a fur coat hung.

Aziraphale had not owned a fur coat since 1888, when several ducks stole it while he was otherwise engaged in a lively discussion with a Mr. Oscar Wilde. He couldn’t bring himself to buy another one, not since glimpsing how several of the ducks eyed him for years afterwards.

He reached out and touched it. It _felt_ solid enough, but he fancied there was something rather off about it. Something which wasn’t true coat-ness.

The angel frowned and prodded at the coat again, stretching his senses out around and through the coat, trying to discern what was so _off_ about it. Nothing jumped out at him, though, which left him feeling dissatisfied and as though the place he _ought_ to be was somewhere cold, a place which had been cold for a very, very long time.

He frowned at that and brushed the feeling aside. Aziraphale wasn’t a fan of _cold_ per se, and couldn’t imagine where the notion came from.

The angel took the coat off the rack and put it outside, hanging it on a lamp post. No one noticed him do this, of course, and the angel nodded to himself and headed back inside.

The coat was hanging up on his coat rack once more.

“Oh, dear Heavens!” Aziraphale muttered to himself.

He next tried vanishing it straight-out, which did not work, and then attempted to send it to Zimbabwe.

The coat remained.

Aziraphale frowned at it and wondered how on Heaven, Hell, or Earth he was supposed to get rid of it.

But … Well, _did_ he need to be rid of it? There was nothing that felt dangerous about the coat, and so Aziraphale resolved to watch it closely and see what it did and who it might belong to whenever they returned for it.

Throughout the day, he glanced at the coat every few minutes, in between scaring off customers, mobsters, and the occasional clueless tourist. The coat never moved, never drew the attention of Aziraphale’s intrude—er, customers—, and never gave off any horrible aura. If it weren’t for it’s inherent un-coat-ness, the angel would have been sure he was imagining the whole thing.

However, when he locked up that night, the coat was gone.

The next day, Aziraphale frowned as he saw the light in his shop had, for no apparent reason, turned green. He sent up a minor miracle, but it didn’t change.

“Really now!” he said, glaring up at the light. “This is getting ridiculous!”

He phoned Crowley.

And got his voicemail.

Of course.

“—do it with style…”

“Yes, yes,” said Aziraphale irritably. “These pranks of gone on quite long enough, my dear. I’m not sure if it’s you or someone else, but I’m quite through with it. This not-coat and green light are far too annoying!”

He hung up, glared at the light, and spent the entire day running the shop without a light. Customers complained about the darkness, which allowed Aziraphale some moments of glee, but overall, by the time Crowley phoned him back, Aziraphale was still decidedly in a foul mood.

“What do you mean, there’s a coat that isn’t a coat and your light’s green?” Crowley asked without so much as a “hello.”

“Exactly as it sounds,” sniffed Aziraphale. “Oh, Crowley, please put it back to sorts.”

“I didn’t do it,” Crowley insisted. “I’ll be right over. Take a look at it, you know.”

“Jolly good,” said Aziraphale and hung up as he heard Crowley mutter to himself, “ _Jolly._ ”

Several minutes later, Aziraphale heard the telltale sounds of tires screeching and a door being slammed shut. Crowley sauntered into the room.

"Hey, angel," said the demon.

"Crowley." Aziraphale wrung his hands. "Do come in."

Crowley did just so, his hands curled around the loops on his too-tight jeans. His gaze fell upon the offending light immediately.

"This isn't one of your wiles gone haywire, is it?" Aziraphale asked, though not too hopefully. He knew full well what Crowley's wiles felt like, having impersonated quite a few himself, and this felt nothing like it.

"Not my doing," said Crowley, flicking the light on and off. Still green. The demon frowned. He tapped the light switch, then flicked it on. Still green.

Aziraphale watched as Crowley snapped at the lightbulb, traced along the wiring, and kicked the socket a few times for good measure.

"Well," said Crowley. " _Something's_ going on here."

Aziraphale huffed. "I did tell you that."

"Yes, yes," Crowley muttered. "Let me try something else."

The demon closed his eyes, and Aziraphale could sense his friend's more demonic form unfurling on a different plane, stretching out towards the light.

Crowley repeated everything Aziraphale had already done and ended up the same was as Aziraphale, too: frustrated, discouraged, and in need of a good stiff drink.

They found themselves in the back room opening some good brandy Aziraphale had found just recently.

“Well,” hiccuped Crowley. “’S not _doin’_ anythin’ to you, righ’?”

“Right,” said Aziraphale, pouring himself another unsteady glass. “’S’zactly right.”

“Well then.” Crowley took off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. “Then I—then I—” He frowned to himself and, with great effort, enunciated each word. “Then I su’pose I’ll just come ‘round to’orrow an’ see wha’s wha’.”

“Oh, would you?” Aziraphale asked, burping quietly. “Tha’s awfully kind of you.”

Crowley glared, but it was half hearted at best. “I’m be here tomorrow, angel, yeah?”

Aziraphale beamed at him. “Yes, yes, m’dear, yes.”

Crowley met him at the shop the next day early enough that the sun was only half-risen. The demon wandered into the shop, his hands in his too-tight jeans, scanning the place. Aziraphale had already scanned it, but nothing immediately obvious leaped out at him. His light was no longer green.

Crowley frowned, nodded at something, and said, “New doo-dad?”

Aziraphale followed his eyes to a small device on a small side table that he _knew_ hadn’t been there the day before.

It was golden, perfectly circular, and about the size of his clenched fist. While watch-like at first glance, there were four hands. Three remained still while the fourth and longest one swung steadily around the dial. Painted around the rim were thirty-six different symbols which held no rhyme or reason to Aziraphale.

“Not mine,” said the angel.

“Hmm.” The demon cocked his head, considering. “Looks familiar. Somehow.”

“It does?” Aziraphale couldn’t hide his shock. “Where on Earth—or Hell—have you seen it?”

“Can’t remember,” said Crowley. He appeared deep in thought. “Could’ve sworn it was just recently, too.”

Well, that was little help. “Recently” for Aziraphale and Crowley could be anywhere from a decade to three centuries ago. That was what six thousand years on a planet would do to a being or two.

The day was spent with the shop resoundly closed and Aziraphale and Crowley (reluctantly and with much grumbling) pouring over old books in the hopes of finding something, _anything_ even remotely relevant.

(Neither checked the pile of recent and unread books. Neither considered those helpful. This was why neither spotted the mites.)

They gave up around suppertime, when they noticed the peculiar device had vanished.

“Well, it’ll come to us,” said Aziraphale, closing one of his books and closing his eyes.

“Hmm.” Crowley tilted his head, considering the spot where the device had been, but said nothing more.

The day after that there was a bright red apple with two neat bites taken out of it. The day after that, a book with the words DON’T PANIC written on the back. When the angel flipped through it, he found that it was written in a language he had never seen before and could not read. The day after that, there was a pen that turned into a sword of Greek make. (That one vanished the quickest, much to Aziraphale’s secret disappointment, as he found it a rather beautiful creation.)

The day Aziraphale realized there was definitely Something Going On was the day he entered his shop after lunch with Crowley (the demon on his heels still snickering over some prank) when they came face-to-face with a young man with inky words fading across his skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bunch of references in this, so here they are: Narnia (fur coats), The Great Gatsby (green light), The Golden Compass (alethiometer), The Bible (the Apple, Eve and Adam’s bites), The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy (the guide with DON’T PANIC written on the back), and the Percy Jackson series (Riptide).
> 
> Yes, the Mites are book-lovers.  
> No, I don't regret this at all.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed!


	3. Not A Funny One

“Whither am I?” the youth demanded. And he was a youth; Aziraphale guessed he couldn’t be more than twenty-four. “Who art thee?”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. “Oh dear.”

The youth glared at him. “Speak, I charge thee. This lodging of books is strange to me, and thy robes art foreign and strange. Has’t thou kidnapped me? Drugged me, taken me to far hence lands? Speak, I command thee. Speak!”

“Oh, bloody hell, not this rubbish,” said Crowley. “I was happy we left that centuries ago.”

“Crowley,” said Aziraphale. “He’s a character.”

“One of Shakespear’s, I’d wager,” said the demon. “Hey, you, whatever your name is, where’re you from?”

The young man drew himself up indignantly, and replied haughty, “I am the Prince of Denmark, son of the late king, mine father, Hamlet. Are who art thee?”

“ _Urgh,_ ” said the demon, turning to the angel as if the young man wasn’t even there. “Why’d it have to be _him?_ ”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale chided. “Don’t be rude.” He turned to Hamlet and bestowed upon him a soft smile. “Well met, young prince. I am Aziraphale, and this is my cousin, Crowley.”

Hamlet frowned, but dipped his head nevertheless. “Well met. I shalt repeat. Wither am I and how didst I come to be hither?”

Aziraphale exchanged a look with Crowley.

“No idea,” said Crowley, folding his arms. “But I’d guess from a book.”

It took a moment for Hamlet to parse Crowley’s words. Aziraphale could only imagine. He, at least, lived through the shifting of the language. The humans around him were, for the most part, familiar with Shakespeare enough to put together a few basic sentences, but Hamlet had never heard twenty-first century English before, and he could only imagine the adjustment the young man was going through.

“A book, thou sayeth?” Hamlet leveled a defiant stare at the demon. “That is impossible. I am no madman and shalt not be spoken to as one. Speaketh the truth or hold thy tongue.”

“I _speaketh_ the truth,” Crowley drawled. He was enjoying this, Aziraphale could tell. “Really, just look around. See that? That’s a lamp. It runs on electricity. _Ee-leck-tris-ity._ ”

Hamlet glared. The young human knew Crowley was making fun of him, and that was when Aziraphale intervened.

“Really, Crowley,” he snapped. “This poor young man is somewhere completely unknown. I _know_ you don’t like the tragedies, but that’s no way to treat him!”

“Look, angel,” said Crowley. “Think of it as a critique of the play. Hey, you, any big events in your life recently?”

It took Hamlet a moment to realize Crowley was speaking to him and another moment to understand what Crowley had just asked. The young prince seemed to collapse in on himself with depression.

“Ay,” he said. “Mine father’s funeral wast not two days since.”

“So, before the play,” Aziraphale murmured. “Oh dear.”

Crowley snorted. “It’s a tragedy already written, angel. You know how it ends. Everything’s sad and everyone dies. Don’t feel _sorry_ for the bugger.”

“I can’t help it!” Aziraphale cried.

“What doth thou mean, everyone shall die?” Hamlet interrupted.

“I mean passed on,” said Crowley, leaning forward gleefully, ignoring Aziraphale’s frantic hand motions to _be quiet already!_ “I mean everyone’ll be no more. You’ll cease to be. You’ll expire and go to meet your maker. You’ll all be stiffs. Bereft of life, rest in peace. Pushing up daisies. Your metabolic processes will be history. You’ll all be off the twig. You’ll have kicked the bucket, shuffled off your mortal coils, run down the curtain and joined the bleeding choir invisible. You’ll all be ex-characters!”

Before Crowley could go on, Aziraphale clamped his mouth shut, but it didn’t matter, because Hamlet got the gist of it by the second euphemism.

“We shall die?” he asked quietly. “Horatio, Ophelia … myself?”

“I’m afraid so,” said Aziraphale. “Young prince—”

But then Hamlet dissolved into a swirl of words. They whispered softly as they billowed around each other until they lifted up, up, up to the ceiling and dissolved into nothing.

The angel and the demon watched it in silence, unsure of what to say after witnessing the utter heartbreak on the young man’s face.

“He won’t be able to do anything about it,” said Crowley after a moment. “It’s already written and everything.”

“I need a drink,” Aziraphale said. “A lot. Care to join me?”

Crowley flapped his mouth open, likely to point out that it wasn’t dark out yet, reconsidered, and shut his mouth. “Sure thing, angel.”

“Good.” Aziraphale nodded and led them to the back room. “I felt bad for him in the play, but to have met the poor lad…”

“I still prefer the funny ones,” Crowley grumbled as he followed Aziraphale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly couldn’t resist putting Hamlet into this. And I couldn’t resist having his appearance be in chapter 3. Also, what can I say, I’m no Shakespeare scholar. Hope you enjoyed terrible Early Modern English :p
> 
> Crowley’s whole spiel about death comes straight from Monty Python’s Ex-Parrot skit. I couldn’t be that funny if I tried. I hope you all have enjoyed so far!


	4. Ain't No Rest for the Wicked

The next character who appeared in Aziraphale’s shop was the Devil.

Not the Devil Aziraphale had come face to face with on the airfield base, but one who came from a comic Crowley had bought for him n a whim back in the 1990s.

“Well,” said the Devil, who sat in an armchair, glass of wine in one hand and a copy of _Paradise Falls_ (first edition) in the other. The sight of one of his books in Lucifer’s hands made something inside Aziraphale quiver with fearful rage.

“I must admit,” the Devil continued. “This wasn’t what I was expecting.”

“Were you expecting something?” Aziraphale managed.

“Well,” said the Devil. “Yes. Yes, I was. Lucifer Morningstar, at your service. From the feel of you, you’re an angel.”

Aziraphale met Lucifer’s gaze head-on and lifted his chin. “I am.”

“Well, well, _well,_ ” said Lucifer. “What’s an angel like you doing in a bookstore like this?”

“Earth duty,” said Aziraphale. “Permanent, as of now.”

Lucifer tsked and stood up, unwinding his legs with a grace Aziraphale had only seen Crowley display before this. “Down here with the humans for thousands of years. Must be terrible, no?”

“Not at all,” Aziraphale retorted. “I’m quite content down here.”

There was a change to Lucifer, then, but Aziraphale couldn’t pin what _kind_ of change, good or ill.

“I’m not sure I know how I ended up here, to be honest,” said Lucifer.

“Nor do I,” admitted Aziraphale. “You’ll disappear shortly, however.”

Lucifer sniffed the air. “Unless my senses deceive me, Armageddon was just recently attempted.”

Aziraphale found that words had quite deserted him.

Lucifer narrowed in on that. “You had something to do with that, didn’t you? The stopping of the Apocalypse.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” said Aziraphale, torn between wanting Crowley by his side and wanting to keep the demon as far away from Hell’s lord as he could.

“You’ll have to do better than that,” Lucifer chided. “That’s too easy to see through. I’m not upset, you know. Not my world, not my End. Still, it must have taken … quite a bit of courage to pull that off. Not to mention quite a bit of wit.”

Aziraphale wasn’t quite sure how to answer that, but he found he was quite glad when Lucifer put his book gently down before the Devil swept past him deeper into the shop.

“I say,” he said, snapping his fingers to bar anyone from entering the shop (which he should have done immediately, but out of all the literary canon within his walls, he hardly suspected a graphic novel version of the Devil himself would be one of them) and following behind Lucifer. “Please do be careful—”

“I shan’t touch a thing,” the Devil promised, stopping in the middle of the shop and looking up through the high windows where sunlight faintly speckled the upper walls.

Aziraphale, awkward and on-edge, hovered just outside of the pool of light.

Lucifer spoke abruptly, not looked at Aziraphale. “Do you ever feel that Hell, Heaven, they all miss the point?”

Aziraphale needed a moment to wrap his head around having a conversation with the actual, literal Devil (or, _a_ Devil?) about theological matters before replying, carefully, “Well, I’m not sure who I am to say—”

“I don’t care about that,” Lucifer interrupted. “Whatever brought us apart will take me back soon. What I want to ask, one rebel angel to another, is what are your thoughts on … _everything?_ ”

It was a question Crowley had asked plenty of times before, but he and the demon had _history_ together. They had laughter and arguments and debates and ponderings and ramblings and drunken philosophizing. Aziraphale had nothing like that with Lucifer and wasn’t much in the mood to start anything long-winded, so he said, “It’s ineffable.”

Lucifer looked over his shoulder, incredulousness coloring his voice. “ _Ineffable?_ ”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale. “God doesn’t communicate with us. They have something—a story, if you will—and we are merely Their characters. We shan’t know what everything all means until everything actually ends, if anything means anything at all.”

Lucifer snorted. “Not Fallen, then.”

“Not as such, no.”

Lucifer sighed and looked back up. “He made me this way, you know. If God’s all-seeing and all-knowing, then He knew how I’d turn out. He _made_ me into this … this _thing_. This hated thing, this universal villain. He was supposed to be my Father, the One I loved above all, and I _did_. I loved Him with all my heart. So why did He turn me into this?”

“I couldn’t say,” said Aziraphale. “So there could be balance, I suppose.”

“But why did we need balance? If God is in control of everything that ever was, is, and will be, then why make it this way?”

Aziraphale could hear the plaintive note in Lucifer’s voice that was often present in Crowley’s voice. He didn’t think either the demon or the Devil was aware it was there. What Holy Parent, that note asked, turned their children away, sowed discord with Their riddles, watered strife with their absence, and reaped pain with their silence? Neither Crowley nor Lucifer knew why it was _they_ who had been punished, why they even had to _be_ punished. They might come up with answers, but they’d never really _know_ , because God said nothing, answered nothing, and perpetuated no knowledge.

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly.

Lucifer nodded once, and words scribbled across his face. Aziraphale didn’t know what the sensation was like, but the Devil looked down and said, “Ah.”

Looking up, Lucifer said, “Well then, nice meeting you. Good look.”

And with that, the Devil swirled away just as Hamlet had, disappearing back into the book from which he’d come.

Aziraphale sagged.

“I,” he said to no one in particular, “need to get to the bottom of this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Neil Gaiman’s Lucifer. Or, the TV adaptation of it, since I’ve watched like four episodes of it (I’ve never quite gotten in Gaiman’s works, RIP). I hope his characterization (and Aziraphale's) weren't too far off. Also, rest assured, I’ll have a nod to something of Terry Prachett’s as well!


	5. She Who is Not Named

It took Aziraphale a day or so to gain any steam in his search, mostly because he was firstly distracted by a book and another visit. Later that night while he was reading _The Regiment of Princes_ he looked up to find yet another book-bound being before him.

" _Really_ now," he muttered to himself as the being twisted around, making confused, panicked, and (more worryingly) somewhat homicidal noises.

"Easy there," Aziraphale soothed.

The being whirled on him.

She was a woman, but none like Aziraphale had ever seen before. She stood taller than Aziraphale, a good eight feet in height. Her skin mottled black across her back, head, and cheeks, with white splotches around her eyes and down her belly. Muscles corded her legs, which tapered into large, flipper-like feet. Her hands, too, were mildly webbed and were tipped with wickedly sharp claws.

Aziraphale had never seen such a being outside of his books before, and found himself quite speechless as the woman howled at him and started forward, towards him, rage in her red eyes.

"Now, hold on a tick," said Aziraphale, holding up his hands. "I'm not going to harm you!"

She didn't stop, and swiped her hand through the air, right towards his head.

Aziraphale ducked and let loose his wings, slicing them through the air and surprising her enough that Aziraphale managed to skirt around her and into a more open space.

"That's quite enough of _that,_ " said Aziraphale, brushing off his coat and tucking his wings away. He gave her a stern stare. "How does a cup of tea sound?"

She stared at him, but some of the fury left her eyes.

Aziraphale nodded once, firmly. "Tea it is, then."

He led her to the back, where she settled in one of his chairs and stared around while Aziraphale put the kettle on and set about fixing two cups of tea.

"Milk or sugar?" he asked.

"Maou l'eau," she said.

It wasn't a language he was familiar with. In the end, he simply put the milk and sugar out so that she could grab them as she chose and poured the tea.

Once settled in the chair across from her, he pressed his palm to his chest. "Aziraphale."

The woman squinted at him, then pressed her own flippered hand to her chest. "Hertha," she said in a deep, gravelly voice.

After that, they had nothing more to say. They sipped their tea in silence, listening to the faint sounds of traffic and the skittering of some bugs Aziraphale would have to miracle away later. Aziraphale did notice, however, that there was a great sorrow about Hertha. He’d seen it many times, in mothers who had lost their children.

There was little the angel could do, but he brushed her with his being and gently tugged away the immediate sorrow, letting her fall back into a lulled calm. The outwards effects were quite noticeable, as Hertha let out a little sigh and finished her tea.

A little while later, Hertha vanished with the faint whiff of paper and ink, leaving only an empty cup of tea.

Aziraphale phoned Crowley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a short one, but I think it's fine. For all that Grendel's mother description goodness, I looked here: https://www.quora.com/What-does-Grendels-mother-look-like-in-Beowulf


	6. By Pride or By Prejudice

Crowley arrived with a screech of tires, a snapping at passersby, and a discordant jingle of the shop’s bell as he strode in.

“Angel!”

“Back here, my dear!” he called.

Crowely found Aziraphale sitting at the chair before his desk, several cups of tea in front of him and donning a slightly more rumpled look than normal.

“Angel,” said Crowley. “What—”

“There’s nothing here,” said Aziraphale wretchedly. “I’ve searched through all my books, and there’s nothing! There’s no reason why all this people should be appearing in my shop, let alone how this is even _possible_. I’ve sensed no Heavenly meddling, nor Hellish, which leaves me to say…”

“What’s else could it be?” Crowley murmured, sinking onto the couch.

“Precisely,” said Aziraphale, running a hand through his already-thoroughly rumpled hair.

Crowley leaned forward and gently caught Aziraphale’s hands, rubbing them with his thumbs. “Angel, deep breath.”

Aziraphale took a deep, unnecessary breath and said, “I haven’t the foggiest what’s going on, Crowley.”

“So, what are you going to do?” asked Crowley.

Aziraphale thought deeply about it.

“Well,” he said slowly. “If my bookshop is inadequate for this particular search…”

“You’ll need to go to a different bookshop?” Crowley guessed. “Why, angel! Saying things like that right in front of _your_ books!”

An idea was forming in Aziraphale’s brain, and so he simply replied, “Quite, quite.”

“Hello?” a feminine voice called out. “I say, where am I? What are those metal carriages outside?”

Aziraphale and Crowley exchanged looks and leapt out of their seats, hurrying into the main shop to find a woman standing in the middle of the bookshelves.

She was rather plain, with asymmetrical features, and dark hair. She wore clothes of a style Aziraphale hadn’t seen since King George III reigned.

“Oh!” she exclaimed upon seeing them. “Hello.”

“Hello, my dear,” said Aziraphale while Crowley made a noise that sounded like, “Ngk.”

“Are you the proprietor of this shop?” the woman asked. “I’m not sure how I’ve entered this place, and I don’t mean to be intruding.”

“You’re not,” said Aziraphale kindly. “The shop is currently open for business.” A small amount of power made it so. “I’m Mr. Fell, owner of this place.”

“I’m Miss Elizabeth Bennett,” said the woman.

Crowley said, “Ngk,” again.

Aziraphale recover quicker. “Well, Miss Bennett, it is lovely to make your acquaintance. Were you looking for anything in particular…?”

“I wasn’t looking for anything in particular, no,” said Miss Bennett. “Though I’d swear I was just in my family’s home…”

“The world moves so fast these days,” said Aziraphale. “Well, feel free to browse, and let me know if you find anything you like.”

“Thank you, Mr. Fell,” said Miss Bennett politely.

While the confused woman browsed, Crowley tugged Aziraphale towards the backroom again, leaving them just in sight of the woman.

“Did you ever meet Jane?” Crowley asked in a voice too low for humans to pick out.

“Oh, yes,” said Azriaphale, just as quietly. “Once, at a party.”

Crowley chanced a look at Miss Bennett, who was bending over Aziraphale’s ancient computer with a frown. “She’s a sharp character.”

“That she is,” Aziraphale murmured.

“She’s going to cotton on,” Crowley said. “Should we hide it all, wipe her memories?”

“I rather doubt she needs _that,_ ” said Aziraphale. “She’s a _character,_ Crowley, not a real person.”

“She looks real to me,” Crowley muttered.

“I say,” said Miss Bennett, who was examining the telephone. “What is this, might I ask?”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale. “That’s a telephone, my dear. It is used to call another person, long distance, you understand. It’s rather like letters, but more instantaneously and with voice instead of words.

“What an ingenious contraption,” Miss Bennett exclaimed.

“What, that out-dated thing?” Crowley protested. “Aziraphale, that’s _decades_ behind everything else.”

Miss Bennett didn’t pay mind to Crowley, continuing, “It must have cost a fortune, I’ve never heard of anything like it before.”

“And you’re unlikely to before you die,” said Crowley. “ _Angel._ ”

“No, Crowley,” said Aziraphale. “She’ll go home soon enough.”

Miss Bennett watched them, dark, clever eyes bright. “I take it from the way you speak, that I’m no longer where I thought I was.”

“Er, well,” said Aziraphale, clasping his hands before him. “That is to say…”

“This is not the London I’ve known,” Miss Bennett said. “Nothing could move so fast as this. I am not … when I was, am I?”

“Clever,” Crowley muttered.

“Well, my dear,” said Aziraphale awkwardly.

“The truth, if you please, Mr. Fell.” Miss Bennett’s back was straight, her shoulders back, and her eyes bore into the angel’s.

“It’s just a minor inconvenience,” Aziraphale said. “Really, I’m getting it sorted. You’ll be home soon.”

Miss Bennett arched an eyebrow. “How soon is soon?”

“Well, it’s not exact,” said Aziraphale. “But likely in the next, oh, five minutes. Would you care for some tea?”

“No thank you,” Miss Bennett murmured, her eyes already back to the world outside the bookshop’s dusty windows, filled with cars and people on phones, and all other manner of things the people of Miss Bennett’s (and, of course, Miss Austen) time could barely have imagined.

“And stubborn.” The demon sounded gleeful. “Oh, I _like_ her!”

“There is a stubbornness about me,” Aziraphale quoted softly, “that can never bear to be frightened at the will of others. My courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate me.”

“Oh, shut up,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale made sure Crowely could feel his smugness, and the demon rolled his eyes in response.

Miss Bennett watched the cars and the people and the bustle go by for another few minutes before she, like all others, vanished back into the pages of her book.

“So,” said Crowley. “Is there anything you’d like me to do?”

“Not right now,” said Aziraphale. “I’ll let you know, though.”

“Sounds like a plan, angel,” said Crowley as he sauntered over to the door.

“Goodbye, my dear,” Aziraphale said, giving Crowley a distracted smile.

“Bye, angel.” Crowley shoved his hands in his pockets. “Call me if you have any updates.”

“Of course, of course,” said Aziraphale. “Take care.”

He closed the door on Crowley’s, “And you,” before bustling back to his backroom.

The idea had formed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, look, originally I was going to have an Oscar Wilde play, like _The Importance of Being Earnest_ here, but then I realized what I really, truly, genuinely wanted to write was Aziraphale hanging out with Elizabeth Bennet (ft. Crowley), and thus, this chapter was born. I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> Also, it's the last day of 2019! How nuts lol. I hope 2020 is kind to you, reader :)


	7. Aziraphale Reaches Out

Aziraphale was quite fed up with the whole business. While these distractions had given him a wonderful excuse not to open his shop for a few days, he really was getting rather tired of the constant literary interruptions.

But he had an _Idea._

And so, closing up shop and threading just enough of his power to alert him if someone else showed up, the angel took a step from his bookshop into the L-Space.

Now, granted, Aziraphale didn’t have a library. Nor was he a librarian. No, he got his knowledge of traveling the L-Space after impressing the Librarians of Time and Space after saving not only the Library of Alexandria’s collection of knowledge, but the Library of Ghazna, the Imperial Library of Constantinople, the Baghdad House of Wisdom, the Raglan Library, and the Mosque-Library in Bulgaria. Right place, right time (though, to be fair, often times it was on Heaven’s orders he was in the area at all).

Still, the knowledge of L-Space was his and he tread carefully through the vastness of the Multiverse, careful to place his feet _just so…_

This was beyond God’s domain, as blasphemous as it felt to say, and he felt his power curling beneath his corporation, cut off from the steady supply from his own universe. It wasn’t an _unpleasant_ feeling, per se, but it certainly wasn’t _pleasant._

It was a bit of a relief when he finally reached his destination.

He stepped out of the L-Space into a library that stretched on, it seemed, forever. He gazed about with undisguised hunger before looking down and finding its Librarian staring up at him.

“Well, hello, my dear fellow,” the angel said.

“Ook.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Yes, I’m aware, my sincerest apologies. While I’d love to stay and have some tea, I actually am here with a bit of a quandary that I’m hoping you’d be so kind as to help me out on.”

“Ook,” the orangutan said meaningfully.

Aziraphale startled and began patting his coat pockets. “Oh! Yes, yes, I’ve got one here … _somewhere_ … Aha!” He brandished a banana and handed it over to the ape. “There we go. Now—oh, but would you mind terribly if I sat down? Thank you. Now, I seem to have something peculiar going on in my shop…”

The Librarian listened carefully as Aziraphale told him all of what happened. The ape’s gaze remained on the angel as he systematically ate the banana, deep in thought.

“And that’s the whole of it, I believe,” Aziraphale finished. “Any thoughts?”

“Ook,” said the Librarian, finishing the banana. “Ook, ook.”

Aziraphale nodded. “I’ll just wait there then.”

The Librarian was up and about then, swinging around the Unseen University’s bookshelves with the care and knowledge any old book dealer gets after spending most of their time in one place surrounded by the time-space warping capabilities of books.

Aziraphale closed his eyes and let the power wash over him, feeling the weight of knowledge press against his corporation, hearing the faint words writ years ago.

“Ook!”

He opened his eyes.

“Oh, thank you,” he said, accepting the book the Librarian offered him. The leather cover was barely worn, and the title read, Of the Beings of L-Space.

Aziraphale ran his fingers down the cover reverently.

“Would you mind terribly if I borrowed this?”

“Ook.”

“Well, I am aware that this is a Library, of course, but it’s one thing to take it somewhere in your own world and quite another to take it somewhere in the Multiverse.”

“Ook.”

Aziraphale bristled. “Of course I’d return it!”

The Librarian nodded, satisfied, and looked pointedly at the book. “Ook.”

The angel nodded. “I shall take the utmost care of it, thank you ever so much.”

After saying goodbye and assuring the Librarian that yes, of course he was planning to attend the next Multiverse Librarian Convention, Aziraphale was off and on his way back to his bookshop.

He had a mystery to solve and some peace and quiet to win back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was absolutely 100% pumped to write this chapter. I only recently started reading the Discworld series (I was unaware it existed throughout my teens, and then college hit me and I wasn’t sure I was ready for a 40+ series, but now I’m reading them and I absolutely adore them) this year and as soon as I read about the L-Space, I knew it would feature in whatever Good Omens fanfic I wrote. I hope you enjoyed!


	8. Edge of Night

Of course, just as Aziraphale landed back in his bookshop was when his alert went off. He banished the tendrils of power he had left behind and looked expectantly about for whichever character was present.

“Down here,” said a voice.

Aziraphale looked down and came face-to-face with a hobbit.

“Well, of course,” he murmured to himself before smiling at the creature. “Hello, there.”

“Hello,” said the hobbit. “Peregrin Took, at your service.”

Aziraphle copied Peregrin’s little bow. “Aziraphale, at yours and your family’s.”

“Right, well, I don’t suppose you mind me asking, where are we?” The little hobbit looked around, eyebrows raised. “I don’t recognize this place, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen this many books in one place.”

Aziraphale couldn’t help but feel pride at that, and he beamed down at Peregrin and said, “Why, thank you! It’s my own personal collection.”

“Is it?” The hobbit’s eyes went wide as he peered around the shop, taking in the multitude of books. “That’s quite a number of them.”

“It is, rather.” Aziraphale beckoned the hobbit over to the back room, where he set the book down on the coffee table and bustled over to a series of shelves against one wall. “Hungry?”

“I am,” said the hobbit, not to Aziraphale’s surprise.

While the hobbit was looking around, eyes bright with curiosity, Aziraphale miracled up a magnificent feast of cakes, fruits, sandwiches, and a bottle of finely aged brandy.

It took him three trips to put everything on the coffee table, and Aziraphale couldn’t deny that he felt a thrill at how large Peregrin’s eyes became at the sight of it.

“Dig in,” Aziraphale advised when he set the last of it down.

The hobbit needed no more encouraging, and Aziraphale and Peregrin spoke only a few words as they enjoyed their meal. It was nice to have someone to eat with who actually ate, and Aziraphale found himself rather sad that hobbits only truly existed on the page, for Peregrin made a most splendid eating companion. Each bite savored, each new flavor remarked upon … it was truly wonderful, and Aziraphale found himself standing to retrieve (read: miracle) new things for the hobbit to try, such as tiramisu, macaroons, dear Mrs. Hedge’s delectable cheesecake, and even a few chips for the hobbit to try.

“This was all marvelous,” Peregrin said when he swallowed the last bit of a jam tart.

Most of the food was gone, and both Aziraphale and Peregrin felt utterly satisfied.

“I’m glad you enjoyed,” Aziraphale said sincerely.

“Now then.” Peregrin dabbed a napkin at his lips, wiping off most of the jam. “This has all been very lovely. My deepest thanks, for you are a generous and gracious host. Now, though, might I ask where I am and how I got here?”

“Well.” Aziraphale sobered and rocked back on his heels. “That’s the trick, isn’t it? I’m afraid you’ve been, well, _pulled_ from your world by some manner of creature which has invaded my shop. I’ve just retrieved a book,” he gestured to it, placed off on a side table so as to avoid crumbs and stains, “which will hopefully tell me what’s precisely going on.”

“Could I help?” Peregrin asked. “Only if you’d like, of course.”

“My dear boy.” Aziraphale beamed. “I’d like nothing better!”

After getting the book, he and Peregrin poured over its pages, looking for anything that had the ability to transport characters from a book to Aziraphale’s own world.

“Could this be it?” Peregrin asked, pointing to a MacGuffin. Aziraphale shuddered when he saw its teeth.

“No,” he said finally. “They just eat good plots.”

They went back to searching, occasionally throwing out suggestions. However, it wasn’t a trope, nor a plot device, and it certainly wasn’t the dreaded cliché.

“Could this be it?” Peregrin pointed to a small drawing of an insect-like creature no bigger than his thumb.

Aziraphale peered down at the inscription next to it. “A story mite,” he read. “Being a creature of L-Space. Be well warned, Librarian, for these beings may slip into your store and wreak havoc upon thy books. They devour words and send stories from their World in the Multiverse into thy Library Such occurrences will gain in frequency until all of thy books are devoured … Yes, yes, I rather think this is it.”

Peregrin beamed. “Now all you have to do is get rid of them?”

“But _how?_ ” Aziraphale asked, skimming through the text. “Ah, here it is. Let’s see … Well then. It says here I need to catch them with a bit of Story Power and release them back into the L-Space.”

Peregrin, who likely had no idea what it was Aziraphale spoke of, nodded his head and said, “So all we need to do is catch them!”

“Precisely.” Aziraphale withdrew a miracled bookmark from his inner coat pocket and marked the place. “Should be quite easy, to my mind.”

“But what’s Story Power?”

The Librarians of Time and Space had told Aziraphale about it, but it was so long ago now and Aziraphale had been much too pleased to hear their explanation word for word.

“I’m sure it won’t be too hard,” he said, with far more confidence than he felt. “Would you like to help me look?”

Peregrin vanished before they could begin their search, but Aziraphale felt in high spirits as he instead phoned Crowley and told him what he had found.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was in the middle of writing this and trying to figure out what Aziraphale and a hobbit would do together besides look through the book. And then it hit me (like a train with the words "NO DUH" pasted on the front), and I couldn’t get it out fast enough. I hope you all enjoyed this chapter!


	9. You Could Be Anything

Crowley arrived just as Aziraphale and the newest literary character had begun searching for the mites.

“Angel!” Aziraphale heard from the front, when the door slammed shut.

“Back here, dear boy!” he called in return.

William squinted in the direction of Crowley’s voice. “Who’s that?”

“My dear friend Crowley,” Aziraphale said. “Have you checked under there?”

“Not yet,” said the boy, stomping off to do just that.

Crowley rounded a shelf, spotted William, and came to a knobbly halt.

“Who’s that?” he demanded.

“William Brown,” said the boy before Aziraphale could answer. “I’m eleven.”

Crowley groaned. “Oh, not _another_ one. Bloody hell.”

“Language!” cried Aziraphale while William looked up and afixed a delighted look upon Crowley. Aziraphale could see William drinking in Crowley’s attire, quite different from Aziraphale’s own, with the leather jacket, sunglasses indoors, and snakeskin belt, and saw when the boy decided that Crowley was Cool(™).

“Hello,” said William.

Crowley looked him up and down, then turned to Aziraphale. “Which book, then?”

“Ah, those new ones Adam left, I believe,” said Aziraphale. “The red ones, you know.”

Crowley nodded, then looked at William and said, “What’re you looking for, then?”

“Mr. Fell’s mites,” said William promptly. “They’re what brought me here, he said.”

“Quite right,” said Crowley. “Let’s have a look, then.”

Crowley sauntered over to William and began helping him look.

Aziraphale turned back to his own section of the bookshop he’d been searching through. It was a section where he kept a few plays and dramas, and he sifted through old titles and cracking spines, hoping for any sight of a mite.

William’s prepubescent voice broke through his concentration.

“Mr. Fell! Mr. Fell!” William cried, straightening up with something clutched tightly in his hand. “I’ve got one, Mr. Fell!”

Aziraphale hurried over and said, “Excellent! Let’s just find somewhere to put it…”

“Sure you don’t want me to squish it?”

“Good heavens, no!” Aziraphale grabbed a (miracled) glass from a nearby table and coaxed William into opening his hand. “There’s no need for that sort of thing, dear boy. None at all.”

What dropped into the glass could only loosely be described as a mite. About an inch long and two inches wide, the creature looked a bit like a leaf bug with tentacles and some sort of bioluminescent glow about its antennae. Several bulging black eyes littered its body, and its front two legs had tiny little hands at the ends—for turning pages, the angel speculated, his hand covering the top of the glass.

“That’s what’s infested your shop?” William said, mouth open.

“Yes, yes it is,” said Aziraphale, holding it up to the light.

“It’s so wicked!” William cried just before he faded away.

Aziraphale and Crowley looked at the spot William had stood, looked at each other, then looked down at the mite in the glass.

“Well,” Aziraphale sighed. “It’s a start.”

“Come on, angel,” said Crowley. “Put that somewhere safe and let’s keep looking.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mmouse suggested this story. Fair warning: I’ve never read nor experienced the series in any way, shape, or form. Everything I know of this series comes from websites with character descriptions. This is also why this story is so short. The next chapter, however, ought to be far, far longer!


	10. Just Harry

Aziraphale and Crowley spent the next two days searching for more mites, and they found three more, to join the first, when their plans were quite delayed by another character.

This one was small in stature and horrifyingly thin. His clothes were baggy and torn, so faded and grimey they looked grey. Well-taped glasses sat upon his nose, and his black hair was an utter disaster. What struck both Aziraphale and Crowley were his bright green eyes and a scar in the shape of a lightning bolt against his forehead.

“That’s Harry Potter,” Crowley hissed in Aziraphale ear.

“I’d figured,” Aziraphale murmured back. Aziraphale knew he had the first book somewhere in his shop, left behind by an absent-minded would-be customer, but the angel hadn’t gotten around to reading it.

He said louder, “Hello, how are you?”

Harry turned his wide eyes to them, and Aziraphale had to refrain from his anger and indignation when he saw how Harry quailed at the sight of two adults before him.

“I’m sorry,” the boy said, polite enough to cover most of the tremble in his voice. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“It’s a bookshop, dear boy,” said Aziraphale. “You’re not intruding.”

Harry looked around anxiously. “It’s just, I was with my Aunt Petunia…”

“Your _aunt,_ ” Crowley muttered. Harry’s eyes flickered to the demon for a moment.

“How about we keep an eye out for her,” Aziraphale soothed. “I just put on the kettle. Can I interest you in a cup of tea? There’s a couch right there we could use to watch out for your aunt.”

Harry (who was used to strange things happening already, as multiple strangely-dressed people had already approached him throughout his short life) nodded. He didn’t seem at all surprised to find there was a perfectly positioned couch where there hadn’t been one before.

Crowley glared out the window and said, “What kind of tea do you like, kid?”

“Whatever’s fine,” mumbled Harry.

Crowley, out of the two of them, was the best with children. Aziraphale, for all that he was an angel, had never quite gotten the hang of handling children. He didn’t have the knack for it, not like the demon did. However, Harry had warmed up to soft-spoken, kindly Aziraphale much more than he had for loud and harsh Crowley, whose loud voice caused the boy to flinch.

The demon was no dummy. He’d spotted it, too.

“I’ll be back, angel,” muttered Crowley.

“Alright,” the angel whispered before offering Harry a smile and setting down the tea tray.

“Alright, angel,” said Crowley in a louder voice. “I’ve got to get going. My meeting, and all that.”

“Have a good day,” Aziraphale offered as he sat in an armchair.

Crowley disappeared out the front door. Aziraphale and Harry watched him go. Harry relaxed, but it was such a small motion hidden under his overly large clothes that, had Aziraphale not been looking for it, he would have missed it entirely.

The young wizard was frightfully thin, the angel realized. Horrifyingly thin. The sort of thin people didn’t _expect_ from someone who grew up around London. How none of his teachers had reported his family (and oh, how Aziraphale loathed to use that word) to child services was _astonishing._

“So, Harry,” said Aziraphale. “How’s school going?”

“Fine,” said Harry. He was still wary in Aziraphale’s presence, but the angel noted that he sipped his tea with barely any hesitation.

“That’s good,” said Aziraphale encouragingly. “I remember when I was at school…”

It had been a while since Aziraphale had entered a college instead of just miracling up the needed paperwork, but he still gamely told the child about an old professor of his, who was convinced the world had been created mere moments before the professor himself had been born, and how everything that came before him was a fiction he himself had created.

This entertained Harry enough that he didn’t startle when Crowley the snake slithered in from the back room and wound his way over to Harry. Harry simply watched the snake with trepidation.

“That’s just my snake, dear boy,” said the angel. “He’s quite safe.”

Crowley reared his head up just within Harry’s reach and waited, staring at the boy unblinkingly.

Harry, cautiously, reached out his hand and pet Crowley’s nose. “Does he have a name?”

“Oh, yes,” said Aziraphale. “Anthony.”

“Hi, Anthony,” murmured Harry.

Aziraphale watched as Harry warmed up to Crowley in a way the young boy definitely hadn’t to them in human-shape.

Though the angel knew little of the _Harry Potter_ books, he knew that snakes were considered evil in the series. Watching Harry happily wrap Crowley’s bulk around his small frame and pet and hiss at the demon, the angel felt his heart ache.

Crowley hadn’t meant to give snakes such a terrible reputation, of course, but it happened nevertheless, and here a small child was, enjoying the comfort of a living creature, when in a few short years in his book, he would be vilified for it.

The injustice of it all grated against everything Aziraphale had in him, but what could the angel do? Harry was a _character_ from a book. He wasn’t real in Aziraphale’s world.

There wasn’t anything he could do.

And that, more than anything, caused Aziraphale to whisper a blessing upon Harry, to strengthen his resolve when he was desperate, to clear his vision when others wish to do him harm, and to know that somewhere, even if it was across the multiverse or on the other side of a book, someone loved him.

Harry might take that to mean his parents, or the friends Aziraphale knew he’d lose, gave him such sense of love. But he hoped that the boy, somewhere, would know that a being of love had given their focus to him and would remember him always.

The boy was polite and kind, gentle with Crowley and eager to soak up the knowledge Aziraphale offered him, and the angel was barely aware that hours (and another kettle of tea) had passed them by when, finally, Harry disappeared.

“Well,” said Aziraphale at last. “That…”

Crowley shifted back to human form. He looked thunderous. “If those _people_ exisssted in _our_ universsse,” he hissed. “I would _wring their necks._ ”

Aziraphale offered up a weak, “No call for that,” but they both knew his heart wasn’t into it.

“That boy was…”

Aziraphale knew what the demon was going to say, and he simply nodded.

“Thank you, angel,” Crowley said roughly. “For blessing him.”

“Think nothing of it,” Aziraphale murmured. “Shall we retire?”

Crowley nodded.

They both went to Crowley’s flat. Aziraphale didn’t want to be in his bookshop, just then, and as he lay next to Crowley while the demon slept, he wondered what Harry would go through.

He summoned the book and began to read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, okay, I couldn’t resist. By the way, this is Harry _before_ he received his Hogwarts letter. I have a lot of Feelings about that, okay, and as a kid and teenager I always wished _someone_ would take Harry away from that household. That kid needs actual parental figures who care about him full-time (much as I adore the Weasleys, I don’t want to shove _another_ kid on their already-strained shoulders). I just really wanted a chapter like this.


	11. The World (A Twist and a Turn)

**Four Days Later...**

The Multiverse is a funny thing.

While Crowley and Aziraphale have done a decent job at clearing out the mites (of the twelve escaped, ten have been found and duly captured), two were still free.

Sentient beings are strange things, when cornered. Some creatures growl or claw, others desperately try to escape, and still others shoot out noxious smells (this latter category belong mostly to skunks and small children).

The mites, on the other hand, look for ways to distract their captors.

So it should be little surprise to anyone that the next two characters who appeared in Aziraphale’s bookshop were none other than Aziraphale and Crowley.

Just not _quite_ as expected.

“Oh!” said Aziraphle when he rounded a bookshelf. It was morning, and he and Crowley had just spent the night before dining and drinking and celebrating almost being rid of the mites. It was slightly discouraging to find more characters, but it wasn’t until Aziraphle caught a good look at them that his brain fizzled out for just a few seconds.

Crowley came up behind him, and from the demon’s intake of breath, Aziraphale gathered he, too, saw what was going on.

“Angel,” said Crowley. “Is that…?”

Aziraphale blinked rapidly, then clasped his hands in front of him.

“You know,” said the angel. “I rather do believe it is.”

The other Crowley folded his arms and cocked and eyebrow. “Well, this isss … interesting.”

“You might say that,” said Aziraphale. “Won’t you two find a place to sit? I’m sure I’ve got some tea around here somewhere…”

The other Crowley and Aziraphale looked noticeably different than Aziraphale and his Crowley. The other Crowley’s skin is darker, and he wore a neat charcoal suit. His sunglasses were merely sleek sunglasses and the demon didn’t seem to be trying to hide his eyes so much. A pen that looked more like a rocketship poked its head out of his pocket. He looked young, suave, and _fast_ , in a way Aziraphale’s Crowley didn’t.

The other Aziraphale was much larger and taller than Aziraphale himself. He wore a camel hair coat that Aziraphale knew he had stored away somewhere but rarely wore. With glasses perched on his nose, neatly combed hair, and professionally manicured fingernails, he looked far older than the other Crowley.

“Ngk,” said Aziraphale’s Crowley as the angel led everyone to the back room. “Is there a book here about us—or, _not-us_ —that I didn’t know about?”

“I have no idea what’s happening,” Aziraphale said. “I know all my books, and we certainly didn’t have any such accounts…”

“You seem to know more than we,” said the other Aziraphale, with a kind of calm Aziraphale couldn’t help be a little envious of. “What’s all going on here, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Aziraphale and Crowley exchanged glances.

Aziraphale nudged Crowley. “I’ll look at the book, you fill them in, would you?”

Crowley looked like he was trying very hard not to pout. “Fine.”

“Thank you, dear.”

So while Crowley filled the other Aziraphale and Crowley in on their situation, Aziraphale paged through Of the Beings of L-Space until he reached the Story Mite’s entry. He ran his finger down the entries, his own glasses perched on his nose, brow furrowed as he read.

“There!” he said, finger on the line. “ _‘Mites may pull books from other uses as a form of distraction when trying to remain in a library. The books will often hold various alternate versions of the Librarian in question, so as to confuse and/or divert attention away from the mites themselves so as to breed more numbers in relative safety.’_ ”

Everyone thought about this.

“Hang on,” said the other Crowley. “Are you saying that in some other universe, you two are _us?_ ”

“Well, obviously,” said Crowley.

“But we’re all so bloody different!”

The other Aziraphale leaned over and patted Crowley’s hand. “It’ll be quite alright, my dear boy.”

“That’s different,” growled the other Crowley, getting up and stalking around the room, stuffing his jittery hands into his pockets.

“Is it, though?” the other Aziraphale asked.

The other Crowley glared, the sighed and drooped.

“Yes, well,” said Aziraphale, before _his_ Crowley could start anything with his other self. “All we need to do is find the mites, however many are left, and capture them.”

“You mean, one of those buggers?” the other Crowley asked, pointing.

The mite gave a squeak so high pitched a human wouldn’t have been able to hear it, then bolted into the stacks and shelves.

“Get it!” Crowley cried, lunging after the mite.

What followed was a completely dignified scramble to capture the mite that absolutely did not include elbowings, cries of, “Get off me!”s, or any other such ridiculous acts several six-thousand year old beings shouldn’t partake in. Of course it didn’t. No one ought to suggest it did.

However, the end result were four grinning, triumphant angels and demons, holding aloft a mite trapped in an old wine bottle.

“Let’s do put it with the others,” said Azirapahle. “And hope it’s the last one!”

It wasn’t, of course. They had missed one mite, and that mite had found one last delicious book.

The words swirled with power…

And a man stumbled into the bookshop, looking haggard, as if he had just woken up from a long sleep, and who stared bemused at his own hands.

The words were there, but they faded in and out of existence, as if trying to figure out if they were supposed to be there or not.

The man looked up. Bright blue eyes met the angel’s and the demon’s.

“I’m sorry,” he slurred. “I don’t—”

Then he squinted.

“Hang on,” he said. “Is that you, Sir Aziraphale?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I’ve read the book and watched the series, and, honestly, how could I resist?  
> Some differences between the book and series are explored through these excellent metas:
> 
> https://wisteria-lodge.tumblr.com/post/185558367513/crowley-aziraphale-book-vs-miniseries  
> https://sunnyaalisse.tumblr.com/post/185592961223/differences-ive-noticed-between-bookaziraphale  
> https://sunnyaalisse.tumblr.com/post/185526193418/differences-ive-noticed-between-tv-crowley-and  
> And, also, this one is fascinating: https://thegoodomensdumpster.tumblr.com/post/187540096287/an-angel-and-a-demon-facing-the-greatest-problem
> 
> Overall, I know I didn’t characterize them to the best of my ability, but honestly this is just a fun thing I wrote in my spare time, accuracy wasn’t exactly what I was going for.


	12. A Sword, A Stone, and an End

“Hang on,” said Aziraphale. “Is that— _Merlin?_ ”

“No,” Crowley moaned. “Not that tosser.”

Merlin, a grave man of about thirty with pitch black hair, dark blue eyes, and more accumulated wisdom than Aziraphale thought he himself could ever garner, eyed Crowley for a moment, then burst out laughing.

“Ah, Sir Aziraphale,” he said. “I should have known you’d faked your death in combat with the Black Knight.”

“Hang on,” the other Aziraphale interjected. “Shouldn’t you be speaking Old Anglo Saxon?”

“I wake up every decade or so,” said Merlin. “Catch up with the times and all. What’s the year?”

“2019, my dear boy,” said Aziraphale, and then proceeded to, once again, explain the situation. He hoped he could catch the last of the mites soon, if only to stop having to tell the same story over and over again.

“And so what you’re saying is that I’ve been … pulled from a book?” Merlin asked, frowning.

“No, no,” said Aziraphale. “Since you actually _exist_ in this world, you were simply pulled from … well, wherever you were.”

“A cave,” said Merlin. “I’m old school like that.”

“Ugh,” Crowley muttered. The other Crowley looked deeply amused.

“I think there’s nothing else for it.” The other Aziraphale clapped his hands together. “We need to find however many mites are left.”

The next hour found two angels, two demons, and one human(ish) warlock coming through Azriaphale’s bookshop, looking for the last story mite.

“There it is!” the other Crowley finally shouted, and there was an enormous hubbub as everyone else dashed over to where the demon crouched.

“Mind the books!” both Aziraphales cried, but were ignored. Aziraphale shared a chagrined look with his counterpart.

“Careful, get it!” Crowley snapped.

“It’s small,” the other Crowley snapped back.

“Oh no,” said Aziraphale. “Crowley, look out…!”

But the other Crowley and Aziraphale had begun to fade away into swirls of words.

“Ah, well,” said the other Aziraphale. “It’s been lovely meeting you all. May you be well.”

“And you,” said Aziraphale.

Crowley and the other Crowley eyed each other, gave one another the tiniest of nods, then said nothing more as the other Aziraphale and Crowley faded away.

“They were rather interesting,” Aziraphale said.

“Indeed,” said Crowley. “Now the mite’s vanished!”

“Not exactly,” said Merlin, holding up a triumphant fist.

With much relief, Aziraphale added the mite to the jar with the rest of them.

“Think that’s all of them?”

“Only way to find out is the wait,” said Crowley, shoving his hands in his tiny pockets.

“Well,” said Merlin. “That gives you quite a bit of time to explain.”

Aziraphale and Crowley exchanged frowns.

“Explain what?” the angel asked. “What else is there to explain?”

“Well,” said Merlin. “How about how you’re alive, despite it being, oh, a thousand years since last I saw you?”

“Er, right,” said Aziraphale. “Well, that’s a long story. It started, you see, in the Garden, and—”

“I’m a demon, he’s an angel,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale, quite put out, pouted at Crowley, who raised his eyebrows in return.

Merlin nodded contemplatively. “Well,” the warlock mused. “That would make your rivalry make more sense, though forgive me, you don’t seem…”

“Antagonistic?” Aziraphale let out a little laugh and shook his head. “A lot’s changed.”

Crowley peered at Merlin over his sunglasses. “Care for some brandy? If you want an explanation, might as well get plastered.”

“ _Yes_ , please.”

And so they retired to Aziraphale’s back room, sharing several glasses of Aziraphale’s best brandy, and chatting long into the night.

It wasn’t until the sun had begun peeking its head over the buildings that Merlin fell into a pensive silence.

“What’s on your mind, dear friend?” Aziraphale asked.

The warlock said nothing for a long time. Then, slowly, he said, “Arthur hasn’t risen yet, but I feel that it will be soon. Have you two any idea of what might be coming?”

Aziraphale and Crowley exchanged glances.

“Would you say a war between Heaven and Hell against humanity would count?” the demon asked.

Merlin blanched. “Yes,” the warlock said. “Yes, I think it might.”

“We don’t know when,” admitted the angel. “But soon, we think. Next decade or so. I’d recommend staying awake.”

“Oh, believe me,” said Merlin. “I will.”

He stood up. “If that’s the time frame, then I’ve a lot of work to do to prepare for Arthur’s coming. Thank you, my friends, for bringing me back.”

“You’re quite welcome,” said Aziraphale. “Best of luck, Merlin.”

They saw Merlin out of the door and into the grey dawn light. The angel and the demon stood in the doorway of the angel’s bookshop and watched as London’s daytime residents shook themselves to life and began filling the city with their noise and bustle.

“Angel,” said Crowley, looking over at Aziraphale with a small smile on his lips.

“Yes, dearest?”

Crowley held out his hand. “Let’s go for a picnic.”

Aziraphale felt his lips spread in a radiant beam. “My dear, I would love to do nothing else.”

He took the demon’s hand.

**An End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While my Merlin isn’t based on any particular story, per se, my overall perception of his has been heavily influenced by the 2008 BBC series (unsatisfying ending and all). Take that as you will.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has read this story! It was just a little plot bunny that attacked me when trying to write my own novel, and it wouldn’t leave me alone. It's not particularly well written, but sometimes we need stories that aren't super fabulous, huh? I hope you enjoyed this little story of mine! Thank you so much for reading :)


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